


Tiny Bubbles

by danajeanne



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 12:31:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danajeanne/pseuds/danajeanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A childhood memory resurfaces for Neal.  This is AU since we know about his family now. </p>
<p>Written for the prompt "bubbles" from Monkeyonthelam for round two of Run_The_Con.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tiny Bubbles

Two days ago…

A room full of FBI agents and nobody had a gun. Well, nobody who should have had a gun held one; they were all in a messy pile outside the conference room. 

Peter doubted it would work but… “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

The man was almost Danny Kaye maniacal in his response. “Oh, but I do, I do. Such fun this is with all of you standing around like adult Pinocchios and here I’m Geppetto and there’s nothing you c—”

Peter’s eyes registered the blood as it sprayed over Diana’s face and hair, but the gunshot didn’t crash through his hearing until after the puppet master hit the floor leaving Diana standing there in shock.

“Guns aren’t toys, if you pick one up you shoot to kill.” The voice was so monotonous as to be almost unrecognizable.

“Who told you that?” Peter asked softly, moving slowly and quietly over to the non-wavering gun.

“Daddy. Mamma said what are you going to do, David, shoot us both? And Daddy said why would I shoot Nealy he’s only four he won’t remember any of this.”

Peter watched as the gun slowly lowered. Carefully he took control of it.

“Mamma said Nealy my little Van Gogh you remember how much I love you and then bang daddy shot mamma right between the eyes and said I’m sorry Nealy but you’re too little you won’t remember this and then bang again and he shot himself between his own two eyes.”

With an agonizing slowness Peter could almost feel, Neal turned his head towards Peter, blue eyes wide and slightly unfocused, a lost look spreading across his face.

“I don’t like guns, Peter. Peter? Please don’t send me back to prison. He was going to kill you all and someone should have told him guns aren’t toys, right Peter? Peter?”

 

Yesterday…

Sounds of splashing and a voice singing softly followed Peter out of the bathroom before he gently pulled the door almost closed. His entire countenance showed the sadness he’d been feeling since the day before.

“How’s he doing?” El asked quietly as she put her arm around her husband’s waist and gave it a squeeze.

“He’ll play with the bubbles, then stop and wash an arm or his face then go back to blowing at the bubbles again,” Peter whispered.

“What’s he singing?”

“’Tiny Bubbles’ over and over. Don Ho on crack.” Peter almost smiled. “I don’t know why he chose this song, though.”

“Maybe his mother used to sing it to him when he was little?” El suggested.

“God knows,” Peter sighed. “What a damn mess.” He hugged El tightly and turned back into the bath room and his bubble-blowing, traumatized partner and friend.

Neal looked up and frowned as Peter came back into the room. “Peter, I’m in the tub!”

Peter turned his head to the side. “I know; I’m not looking. You enjoying those bubbles?”

“It’s been a while since I actually had a bubble bath, so this is kind of nice,” Neal admitted above the sounds of splashing. “Whose idea was it? El’s?”

Peter’s head jerked around and he tried to hide the surprised look he could almost feel start to spread across his face. “It was your idea, buddy, remember?”

“Hmph. Mama always gives me….gave me…bubble baths…my mom, I mean…” Neal’s voice slowly faltered to a stop. He flicked at a few more bubbles before putting some on his fingers and bringing it up to his mouth. “Blech.”

“You aren’t supposed to eat the stuff,” Peter said wryly.

“I know that,” Neal snapped. He sighed. “I’m tired I’d like to get out now.”

“Okay.”

“I’d like to get out now,” Neal repeated pointedly.

“Go ahead.”

“You’re still in here.” Neal glared, nose wrinkled, at Peter.

“And I’m not going anywhere.” Peter sat down on the toilet seat and ran his hand through his hair. The humidity coming from the hot tub coupled with the heat lamp in the ceiling was causing him to sweat.

“Peter!”

“I won’t watch; I’m here just in case you slip or something.”

“Slip, I’m not gonna slip, I’m an adult, for—” Splash, thud. “Peter?”

“Right here, Neal.” He grabbed a large, fluffy bath towel off the counter and tossed it over his shoulder before bending over to help his slippery friend stand up. “Whoa, careful, you’re a little wobbly there.”

“I’m a lot wobbly, just please get me out of here and we’ll never talk about it again.” Neal grabbed hold of Peter’s upper arms and carefully lifted first one foot and then the other over the side of the tub onto the rug. “Towel, please?

Peter silently handed over the towel but stayed close just in case wobbly turned to falling. He watched as Neal dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist.

“Clothes?” 

“Guest room.” Peter nodded towards the door.

Neal pulled open the door and started out into the hallway only to stop abruptly. “Elizabeth?”

“Neal?” Peter poked his head around Neal’s. “El?”

El scrambled up from where she’d been sitting on the floor propped against the wall. “I was just waiting, um, would you like something to eat, Neal?” She smiled hopefully.

“No, thank you. If it’s all right with both of you I think I’d rather go to bed. My brain is tired.” Neal took a couple hesitant steps towards the guest room, keeping both hands on the towel around his waist.

“I know my brain is tired so I can imagine how you must be feeling right now. Go to bed,” Peter said. “We’re here if you need us.”

“I’ll leave some soup in the fridge for you in case you wake up later and are hungry,” El offered as she turned to go back downstairs.

“Thank up,” Neal said softly. “Thank you both.”

“You’d do the same. Go to bed, get some sleep, and we can talk in the morning.” Peter patted Neal on the shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.”

Neal just nodded and disappeared into the guest room, firmly shutting the door behind him.

 

Today…

“Is he awake?” El asked her husband as he came down the stairs. Peter nodded. “Think he’ll want breakfast?”

“I don’t know; I’d wait till he comes down and see what kind of mood he’s in. And if his mind is here or back in that awful living room.” Peter grimaced and stopped talking when he heard the door to the spare room open.

They watched as Neal trod slowly down the stairs, eyes fixed firmly on his stocking feet. At the bottom he took a deep breath and raised his head. “I’m sorry—“

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Peter interrupted. “You relived a horrible experience, it’s called PTSD, and—”

“I know, but… I’d like to tell you about it, if you want to hear it. What I remember anyway.” Neal looked at them a little wide-eyed.

“Always, you know that. Come sit down.” Peter walked over to the couch and sat down in one corner. El followed and planted herself in the other corner, patting the space between them.

Neal perched gingerly on the edge before sliding back. A little wiggling and he laid his head against the top of the couch.

“When you’re ready,” Peter said quietly.

“I’m not sure where to start,” Neal admitted. “I think…what did I say after I…killed that man?”

“You shoot to kill, guns aren’t toys and your dad shot your mother and then himself. In a nutshell, anyway,” Peter answered.

“I doubt it was that coherent. All right, yes, my dad killed my mom in front of me and then shot himself. He thought I was too young to remember and I guess he was right in a way; I buried it in the back of my mind and never thought of it again. I guess the other day brought it all out and I wasn’t ready.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Peter said ironically. “Do you remember why it happened? Did your parents fight a lot?”

“Not that I remember, and no, I don’t know why.” Neal sighed. “I do know my parents loved me; mom called me her little Van Gogh.”

“Do you want to know?” Peter asked.

“No.”

“Okay.” Peter shifted and put his arm around Neal’s shoulders, leaving it there as Neal stiffened then slowly relaxed. “If you ever do want to—”

“I’ll ask. But, Peter, I have my life now, I’ve remembered what happened and don’t have to worry about it jumping out and biting me again. Knowing why won’t change anything.”

“No, you’re right,” Peter admitted. “And like you said, you have a life now. And Neal? It’s a good life, filled with friends who care about you. Don’t ever forget that.”

El stood. “Wine?”

“Before breakfast?” Neal laughed his first in quite a while.

“Coffee, then?”

“That sounds perfect, Elizabeth, thank you.”

“Me, too,” Peter added.

“Of course,” smiled El.

“I do have one question, if I may?” Peter asked as El walked into the kitchen.

“What’s that?”

“’Tiny Bubbles’?”  
“Mom loved Connie Francis, it was her favorite song. She used to sing it to me when I was taking a bath and we’d play with the bubbles.” Neal blushed. “I was singing, too, huh?”

“Oh, yeah,” Peter said. “Over and over and over. Not Don Ho?”

“You have such a rough life, Peter. No, the lyrics are different at the end.” Neal took a deep breath and…“Tiny bubbles, make me feel happy, ah, they make me feel fine, those tiny bubbles, make me warm all over with a feeling that I'm gonna love you till the end of time…”


End file.
